"My apologies, sir. I just traveled from the Mediterranean and haven't drawn supplies yet. I know I look disgraceful, especially to a paratrooper."
Burnham's eyes were ready to pop out. He shook his head in a friendly warning, but I decided it would be more fun not to mind how I went.
"What on God's green earth are you talking about, Boyle?"
"You, sir. You must be a paratrooper. Those are jump boots, right? And your trousers are bloused. That's the sign of a paratrooper. At the front, no one except the real McCoy would ever dress like that. Where'd you get your wings, Captain Heck?"
"You get this straight, you pipsqueak," he said, a bony finger prodding my chest. "You shut up about paratroopers and answer my questions, or so help me I'll throw you in the stockade so damn fast your ass will land in there while your shoes are still on the floor. You read me?"
Now I could smell his breath as well as his aftershave.
"Yes, sir. I'm glad to answer any questions. First, though, allow me to extend the thanks of General Eisenhower and the British chief of staff for the assistance you will render me while I am here."
"Eisenhower is in North Africa," Heck snarled. "This is Northern Ireland. I'm the law here."
"As far as drunken GIs and traffic jams go, you are. But, as you say, this is Northern Ireland, British territory. Which is why my orders are also from the British chief of staff." Figuring that Uncle Ike's true location was a military secret, I refrained from informing Heck that Palestine was not part of Africa. Or that my orders, signed by Major Cosgrove as a representative of General Alan Brooke, chief of the Imperial General Staff, were really from MI-5, and probably worthless if anyone ever checked. I'd been in Ireland about an hour and already I was indulging in evasions and keeping secrets.
"GIs and traffic jams! Jesus Christ, Boyle, who do you think you're talking to? I'm the provost marshal, I run the Criminal Investigation Division. Do you really think you can waltz in here and take over this investigation?"
"What investigation, sir? Pilfering of supplies? Theft of jump boots?" I was surprised Heck knew why I was here. I wouldn't have been surprised if a Brit officer had known, but I doubted that MI-5 informed American MPs or CID agents of their plans. I thought if I could get him to blow his top he might scream before he thought.
"Lieutenant Burnham! Arrest this man," Heck said. He poked his finger at me again, above the sternum, where it hurt. He smiled as he did it.
"What charges, Captain?"
"Disrespect directed against a superior officer. Provoking speech. Put him in a cold cell now." Heck hooked a thumb toward a door, still smiling.
"Sir," Patterson said, "those charges aren't going to make it to court-martial. There are no grounds."
"You may be right, Sergeant. We'll know in two or three months." His grin widened.
"Those jump boots are a violation of Article 83," I said as calmly as I could. "Or 84, I can never remember. Which is it?"
"Both, actually, since those are only issued to paratroop units," Burnham said, his eyes flicking between Heck and me. "If you were a stickler for those things, that is. Wrongful disposition of any military property belonging to the United States: Any soldier who wrongfully disposes of any horse, arms, ammunition, accoutrements, equipment, clothing, or other property issued for use in military service is in violation of the Articles of War."
"I don't have a fucking horse," Heck said, turning on Burnham. "What are you, some jailhouse lawyer?"
I could see Burnham hold back an answer, bite his lip, and straighten up.
"I'm just saying that if Lieutenant Boyle presses the point, we'd be obliged to look into it. Just as we'd have to look into any disrespect charges if you press the point. Sir."
"You want us to hold him, Captain?" Patterson asked, offering him a way to change his mind. I could tell that Heck and these fellows weren't in cahoots. They looked practiced at calming the captain down and keeping him from being his own worst enemy. Much as I appreciated their efforts, I didn't need a calm Heck. I needed Holy Heck so he would spill the beans.
"You want provoking speech, Captain? How about this: I'll bet you don't have a single lead yet. I bet you don't have the contacts around here to know what goes on outside your base. I bet you don't know squat."
"Contacts? How do you think I knew you were landing in Dundrum Bay today? How many people on this island even know you're here, Boyle? Four people, and you're looking at three of them."
"Don't forget Grady O'Brick."
"That crazy old coot? He doesn't even know what day it is, and half of what he says is gibberish. Him and a general out in the desert-that's not much backup, Boyle. You better watch yourself. The IRA or the Red Hand boys might put a bullet in your head." I tried to ignore the heavy-handed threat, and wondered what kind of local contacts Heck might really have.
"So who's the fourth guy?" Silence settled into the space between us as Heck took in two deep breaths, his eyes boring into mine as his frustration rose. He was used to threats and bullying working to his advantage. When they didn't, or when a guy like me was too dumb to be scared by them, he didn't know what to do.
"Get out of my way," Heck said, shoving me as he strode for the door. He opened it and rain slashed at him, drenching his face. The sky beyond him was dark, heavy with clouds, and he looked pleased. "You two remain here. Do not leave your post, do not call for transport for this man. That is an order."
The door slammed behind him. Petty, vindictive orders from a superior officer are a lot easier to take when you've talked your way out of an arrest and a cold cell.
"Looks like I won't be court-martialed," I said, approaching the stove and rubbing my hands to warm up.
"Yet," amended Burnham.
"One or two years of law school?"
"One and a half," he said. "It shows?"
Patterson laughed. "I think he's memorized half of the Articles of War. Have a seat, Lieutenant." We sat around the fire, the cold ebbing as we drew closer, the tension faded from the room.
"You guys not fans of Captain Heck?" I offered.
"He's OK," Burnham said. "Doesn't get in our way too much. This is the 5th Division MP Platoon, not one of his headquarters MP companies. We don't cross paths too often."
"My dad didn't like MPs much in the last war. Always told me they were too damn busy keeping the doughboys from a drink and some fun with the ladies. But then he'd add, every time he said it, that his division MPs were different. They went into the trenches like everyone else, and when a divisional MP spoke, they listened."
"Wise man, your daddy," Patterson said. "Question is, did he raise a wise son?"
"Sometimes I do wonder," I said.
"You made an enemy out of Heck," Burnham said. "You could have let him chew you out and been done with it."
"He already was an enemy," I said. "Otherwise he wouldn't have brought me here. Someone from your division HQ was supposed to meet me, not you guys. I'd bet Heck has someone at headquarters, maybe in the communications section, and they intercepted the message. The real question is, why does Heck give a heck about me?"
"He doesn't tell us his business, Lieutenant Boyle," said Patterson. "We were just detailed to bring you in and stand by."
"Call me Billy. I'm not much for the formalities."
"OK, Billy, I'm Jack, and the law student is Sam Burnham. Now tell us, did Eisenhower really send you all the way up here to look into the BAR heist?"
"I was invited by some British pals of his, and he agreed. They want to be sure the IRA doesn't stir up too much trouble."
"Why you? Are you CID?"
"No. I used to be a cop back in Boston. And I'm Irish. I think a certain British major enjoyed the irony."